I am not dead...i swear.
Sooooo…this is me…trying to see if I am off my writers block..and no really I haven’t forgotten about all the fics I owe people, but I want to make sure my writing is back to somewhat what it used to be. So I made myself do the first thing that the JE Pairing generator spit out…and it was Ohmiya, to the word “Crossdressing”…and here is what came from it.
Title: Business or Pleasure, Sir?
Rating: Pg-13 for suggestfulness
Summary: What’s Ohno’s prospective on the more…girl-oriented…outfits they make him wear.
Pairing: Ohmiya
Ohno PoV
I have done it quite a lot for his job. Blink slightly for the camera, mouth shaped just so in confusion, vague smile and pout laced with confusion. Stance slightly awkward, its not like I feel all that comfortable with this you know people, but for you? A little on this side of mild, just like…just like a canvas that is mostly content with the colors splashed on it.
Yes.
Just like that.
It was after all just a job. Whether it was a skirt or a dress, long or short, even with that tiny cap or ridiculous wig. Folds and the soft giggle of those that fit me in something only made for fan service or laugh value, or maybe even shock value in the start of it.
The soft mocking words of Matsujun. The sympathetic glimmer in Sho’s eyes. The laughter in the companionable hand over the shoulder - administered by one Aiba Masaki. That tiny little dimple at the corner of Nino’s mouth as he unsuccessfully hides a smirk behind his gameboy.
All just a simple job. All simply another part of his work. Merely some good, clean fun.
Yes.
But really the thing that I cannot understand is why the potential of such unique dress-style is wasted on me. Really, there is someone who is much more suited to it.
After all, if there is anything that doesn’t lie, it is the canvas. The painter might smudge the lines of truth but the painting itself tells only the truth of what it is told.
And it is often enough that it whispers that truth to me. Mutters smugly about how the soft splash of silk looks in dim lighting, how if the puddles of brightness from a shadowed light-bulb, if pointed just so, on the lines of the dress, clean and playful and arranged, all smoothness and with a sort of coy innocence, how it comes out like that and maybe, conceivably, possibly, the loveliest sight. The contrast of that dress -- luminous white, almost too perfect with just that side of too many curved, round surfaces - to the almost jagged, vulnerable lines of Nino’s body, sitting just slightly bent in on himself, smile overly bright in its brash awkwardness.
He does it for me.
Really dresses are wasted on a figure like mine. On his frame though. Oh, it becomes a sort of poetry that only certain mediums can capture properly. Shaking, steady hands, eyes focused just so, a rare splash of full, blushing red or glaring, almost painfully- bright white or glinting, liquid black.
When he starts moving - short fidgety movements, furtive and defiant - as sitting statue-still becomes too much for him, and moving, and moving, a little more and more and more, I set down the pen, pencil, brush, smudging finger, away from the paper. It is a signal for him, and it’s maybe not quite a hop that he does, but something more alongside of a flinging, rapidly eager movement.
And then the dress is off, puddled in too-fast forgetfulness, willful denial and I stand too. He barely waits for me to step away from the easel - unfinished still, but getting ever closer - to extract his payment. To prove again that that dress that covers him so completely, reduces him while it produces him - brings him to an exotic sort of glory -- does not make him any less of what he is.
Sometimes I think that maybe it is not the painting that matters, but the delicious payment. Friction, heat, haze, slick caress.
No matter how fast he is upon me I never forget to cover the painting carefully with a thick cloth.
A canvas, after all, unless blank, acquires its own life. Life of the artist, life of the subject matter, life of the maker of the cloth - all mixed and tangled and unique.
Now and again the canvas grumbles then of how it missed the only art that mattered.
The End.
Sooo…if this seems like an ok fic, and I sorta like it, then there is a great possibility that I’m going to start writing more often again. Yea..hello again all you beautiful people!
p.s. Amy poke me when you get on I have something to show you.
Title: Business or Pleasure, Sir?
Rating: Pg-13 for suggestfulness
Summary: What’s Ohno’s prospective on the more…girl-oriented…outfits they make him wear.
Pairing: Ohmiya
Ohno PoV
I have done it quite a lot for his job. Blink slightly for the camera, mouth shaped just so in confusion, vague smile and pout laced with confusion. Stance slightly awkward, its not like I feel all that comfortable with this you know people, but for you? A little on this side of mild, just like…just like a canvas that is mostly content with the colors splashed on it.
Yes.
Just like that.
It was after all just a job. Whether it was a skirt or a dress, long or short, even with that tiny cap or ridiculous wig. Folds and the soft giggle of those that fit me in something only made for fan service or laugh value, or maybe even shock value in the start of it.
The soft mocking words of Matsujun. The sympathetic glimmer in Sho’s eyes. The laughter in the companionable hand over the shoulder - administered by one Aiba Masaki. That tiny little dimple at the corner of Nino’s mouth as he unsuccessfully hides a smirk behind his gameboy.
All just a simple job. All simply another part of his work. Merely some good, clean fun.
Yes.
But really the thing that I cannot understand is why the potential of such unique dress-style is wasted on me. Really, there is someone who is much more suited to it.
After all, if there is anything that doesn’t lie, it is the canvas. The painter might smudge the lines of truth but the painting itself tells only the truth of what it is told.
And it is often enough that it whispers that truth to me. Mutters smugly about how the soft splash of silk looks in dim lighting, how if the puddles of brightness from a shadowed light-bulb, if pointed just so, on the lines of the dress, clean and playful and arranged, all smoothness and with a sort of coy innocence, how it comes out like that and maybe, conceivably, possibly, the loveliest sight. The contrast of that dress -- luminous white, almost too perfect with just that side of too many curved, round surfaces - to the almost jagged, vulnerable lines of Nino’s body, sitting just slightly bent in on himself, smile overly bright in its brash awkwardness.
He does it for me.
Really dresses are wasted on a figure like mine. On his frame though. Oh, it becomes a sort of poetry that only certain mediums can capture properly. Shaking, steady hands, eyes focused just so, a rare splash of full, blushing red or glaring, almost painfully- bright white or glinting, liquid black.
When he starts moving - short fidgety movements, furtive and defiant - as sitting statue-still becomes too much for him, and moving, and moving, a little more and more and more, I set down the pen, pencil, brush, smudging finger, away from the paper. It is a signal for him, and it’s maybe not quite a hop that he does, but something more alongside of a flinging, rapidly eager movement.
And then the dress is off, puddled in too-fast forgetfulness, willful denial and I stand too. He barely waits for me to step away from the easel - unfinished still, but getting ever closer - to extract his payment. To prove again that that dress that covers him so completely, reduces him while it produces him - brings him to an exotic sort of glory -- does not make him any less of what he is.
Sometimes I think that maybe it is not the painting that matters, but the delicious payment. Friction, heat, haze, slick caress.
No matter how fast he is upon me I never forget to cover the painting carefully with a thick cloth.
A canvas, after all, unless blank, acquires its own life. Life of the artist, life of the subject matter, life of the maker of the cloth - all mixed and tangled and unique.
Now and again the canvas grumbles then of how it missed the only art that mattered.
The End.
Sooo…if this seems like an ok fic, and I sorta like it, then there is a great possibility that I’m going to start writing more often again. Yea..hello again all you beautiful people!
p.s. Amy poke me when you get on I have something to show you.